


Subterre

by hellkitty



Category: Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-23
Updated: 2012-01-23
Packaged: 2017-10-30 00:53:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/325971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellkitty/pseuds/hellkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This doesn't fit in anywhere in canon timeline. :(  For tf_rare_pairing Megatron/Drift 'hard words'</p><p>And then there was Random Porn.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Subterre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saeru](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saeru/gifts).



> This doesn't fit in anywhere in canon timeline. :( For tf_rare_pairing Megatron/Drift 'hard words'
> 
> And then there was Random Porn.

“Swords.  Really.” There was the high whine of Megatron’s fusion cannon cycling on, the punchline of a not-funny joke. 

“Yes,” Drift said, moving slowly, flipping a blade and sliding it in a hip sheath, before reaching, in slow motion, for the sword on his back. Almost a game of dares, to see if he could push Megatron into firing. 

“I’ll give you that,” Megatron said, a lopsided, almost fond smile on his face, “No one ever doubted your courage.” A lift of one shoulder. “Your decision making, however?” 

“Haven’t fired yet,” Drift said.  His fingers wrapped around the hilt, lifting it from his back, the jewel in the hilt flaming blue and coruscating in the darkness.

“Curiosity,” Megatron said, evenly.  “The plague of kings.” That old, acerbic humor that had leavened even the darkest moments, in the early days of the war. 

“Are you a king now?”  Drift brought the blade between them, shifting his stance, knowing that Megatron had noted that he—also—hadn’t attacked. And for the same reason.

Megatron looked around the tunnel, as a show. He didn’t need to, the ancient awareness of walls around him, of clearance and load, had never left him from the mines.  It was a show, for Drift’s benefit, an opening he knew the other wouldn’t exploit. “I’ve had worse kingdoms,” he said, mildly, before he let his gaze drop down onto Drift, like a judgment. “And better soldiers.”

Despite it all, Drift bridled at the slight. “You got the army you deserved.”

“I did. And all Cybertron trembled.” Megatron stepped closer, his own mute challenge. “Surely you remember, Deadlock.” The name was an amusement, something Megatron let slide off his glossa like a kiss.  “Surely you remember.”

Drift stepped back, the sword between them. Not afraid, but…wary.  “I remember you betrayed us. Used us. Manipulated us all.”

A friendly nod, as though the two weren’t leveling weapons at each other.  “That’s how it works, Drift. War takes faith, thousands of strands, woven together into one mighty cause. Can you say the Autobots are any better?”

“Not anymore.  They’re where we were at the start. We…?” He shrugged, then went rigid, catching the pronoun too late. We. 

Megatron didn’t bother to hide the smirk, stepping in, his left hand cupping the white chin armor under Drift’s guard, turning the face to his red, inexorable gaze. “We,” he repeated.  He stooped lower, the hand sliding around under the helm, pulling Drift into a kiss that only half-surprised him. The other half was stirred memory, something dark roiling under a darker surface, something he’d thought—hoped—long dormant.

The blue flare from his sword died, his hands on the blocky broad shoulders, torn between pulling away and the bliss of memory.  Once—no, not once, but many times, too many to count—he’d clung to this grey, massy frame. And his armor was different, most of his body rebuilt in that hidden city, but he—the innate, the history—remembered all too well the fascinating map of textures on the battered armor, the vibration of the powerful engine under his palms.

He tried to push away, but found he couldn’t, didn’t want to, caught up in a net of memory, a snare woven of all the longing and significance he’d had before—that hard burst of pride when Megatron had hand-picked him from the crowd, and all the other moments of esteem.  It wasn’t power Drift had wanted, even as Deadlock, it had been, simply to _matter_.

He felt, as much as heard, the laugh against him, around him, his mouth opening under the other’s assault, fighting himself as much as Megatron as he writhed, biting and squirming.

They fell to the ground, entangled, their fight moved to a different, more familiar battlefield, one of claws and bites, pressure and sharp edges.

Megatron’s hand delved down, riding the sleek shapes of his armor, to squeeze the interface hatch, metal buckling under his fingers. Drift grunted, fading into a growl, his own hands little daggers finding the gaps in the armor, behind the shoulder, the elbow. He dug in, even as he rocked his pelvis up, into the hand.  Another laugh, husky and dark as wine.  “And what if your Autobots could see you now,” Megatron goaded, lifting just enough of his mass off the smaller mech to reach down, releasing his spike. It jutted, a shape of glossed highlights, in the darkness between them, and Drift’s gaze was snagged on it, unable to look away.

“Not mine,” Drift murmured, distantly. “Fight with them, not for them.”

“Such a fine semanticist you are,” Megatron said.  “And does it console you?” He rocked back, his spike finding the cover of Drift’s valve.  Drift’s hands dug into his shoulders, his ventilations sharp and short, panting and hesitant. 

“Don’t need consolation,” he managed, even as the head of the spike, slick and cool and wet, slid over his covered valve.

“Don’t you?”A purr. “Then tell me, Drift,” and the name was tart on his glossa, his spike jabbing the valve cap, which yielded aside with a sudden click, “why are you so eager?” 

“I’m not…nnnggh,”  Drift’s head dropped back as the spike pushed into his valve, the larger-rated equipment straining his own, and his hands moved from clawing to clinging, his thighs widening in a furtive invitation.

Megatron drove in, until his spike sheathed itself, tip against the flat plate of the ceiling node, feeling Drift quiver and work around him, wanting to expel, to push him aside, even as the thighs gripped around him. Always like Drift, contradictory, trying to suppress his desires until he was forced to acknowledge them.

That was fine with Megatron: he began moving in the other mech, his spike jerking at first in sharp, short little thrusts, almost stabs, before slowing the moving growing longer and deeper, the calipers shifting and rolling around him in sinuous waves.  “You don’t want this?” Megatron asked, watching the play of pleasure and morals over the other’s face, the conflict enflaming him like a wildfire. Deadlock had always been…intense, and never more so than interfacing, always teetering on the edge between denial and lush eroticism.

A curse, flung at him on the top of a gasp. 

Megatron stopped, stilling his spike, nearly exited, only the tip, as some placeholder of possession, lingering inside the tight rim.  He could feel the frenzied flutter of the calipers, against the hot rush of the other’s EM field.  “You don’t want this?” he repeated, knowing the answer, and knowing the pure heady power of making Drift admit it.

Another curse, the hips twitching up against him. He flattened Drift down, one hand on one white hip, fingers curled over the edge of a scabbard.

“Yes,” Drift snarled, defiant even in defeat.  “I want it. You.”

Megatron thought, for an instant, about crowning his victory with withdrawal, refusing Drift the culmination, leaving him rocked, vertiginous with the admission, scalded in shame. But his own desires overrode that, and he lowered himself down, crushing the white frame against him, thrusting hard into the smaller mech.

For a long moment, nothing but the sound of their interfacing in the darkness, wet slides, the slick sound of metal on metal, and the soft hum of cooling systems.  Then, a ululation, a keening, seeming to come from both of them and neither, a resonance building between them, nostalgia and lust, the past ringing against a future, loss and a bitter, hardsparked reunion. 

It came, something bigger than both of them, shuddering their bodies together, a flood of color and light and sensation and memory, like a wall of water, tossing them together, even while slipping through. 

And then, it was gone, and a long moment of deafening silence, so powerful it swallowed the sounds of their ventilations, so dark it ate the color of their optics, before fading, giving them back to the world, the hard, cold floor of the tunnel, the hot spill of fluid between them, the red and blue optics meeting and finding no chromatic harmony. 

Megatron’s mouth twitched, half-rolling off the smaller mech, allowing himself another few moments of raw enjoyment, the slide of his turgid spike in a quivering, responsive valve, a desire without a clamoring need.  His hand brushed one of the Autobot insignias on Drift’s shoulder.  “These don’t suit you,” he said, softly, not a warlord, or a foe, but a former lover, who saw deeper in these moments than either wanted to admit.

His smile reformed, coalescing in the darkness, and he pulled out, abruptly, smirking at Drift’s sharp gasp of pleasure/pain. He pushed to his feet, housing his spike with a swift gesture, the red optics lingering over the white frame, the telltale spill of silver over the dark thighs, as Drift rolled to his feet, hands finding his sword.

Megatron had no desire to restart the war between them, giving a sharp nod, before ducking away, down another corridor.

And as the darkness enveloped the former miner like a familiar hand, Drift found himself wondering if it was more than curiosity and betrayal that bound them.


End file.
